Three Words
by Mikageshi
Summary: All they needed were three words and each other.


**Disclaimer  
**All related characters and settings found below are strictly based on the TV series _Hey Arnold! _created by Craig Bartlett as seen on _Nickelodeon_.

**A/N  
**You read them right: Drama/Angst. In _Hey Arnold!_? Sure! We all know how Preteen Anguish Queen Helga just marries these two genres together. She and the typically positive Arnold… err, _brood_ below. My apologies.

Oh yeah, almost forgot. I employed a style so diverse from that of the original _HA! _plots that it demands thorough following of the train of thought. Arnold and Helga—both, let's say, _conversational _people—suddenly become laconic here, for according to a silent pact, they could say no more than…

**Three Words**

He ran his fingers along the wood frame of the one photograph that he had of _them_. No, not his grandparents—_them_. Pensively he studied the background, the sight of the expanse he so yearned to traverse. Wherever stood that rainforest of San Lorenzo (albeit its map was already in his very hands), he would find them: the man of whom he himself stood as sole heir, from his legitimacy to his blonde locks and romantic inclinations; and the woman responsible for his very birth. For him, gazing upon the woman was intimacy; she was the intrinsic reflection of his person; he claimed her attributes—from the contour and features of her face to her idealist disposition—impeccably. He treasured the man and woman despite their prolonged absence in his life; he reveled in the beauty of experiencing them with his eyes. Yet he could not delight in all they were worth, for they were not his to have. Yes, they—as he observed in accounts of their expeditions—were good people; they must have been. The boy was at an emotional loss there: he had no memories of being with them to prove that they indeed were "good" of which he could speak. He may be acquainted with extraordinary, near-unbelievable tales of their travels—which the man's father took nine years of sleepless nights to tell—but he did not know them well.

He did not truly know them.

She ran her fingers along the cheek of one of the countless trophies that belonged to _her_. No, not her herself—_her_. Pensively she studied the engraved inscription, the sight of the expanse she so yearned to traverse. Wherever stood that portent of success (albeit its path was already in her very hands), she would find her: the young lady of whom she herself stood as younger sibling and whose taxing expectations she bore upon her own and, inadvertently, her sister's shoulders educe shame and self-torment upon the latter who trembles amidst her outstanding shadow. For her, gazing upon the plaque was travesty; it was the harrowing reflection of her failures; it ridiculed—with its tacit, condemning stare—her inability, or mere lack of desire perhaps, to attain honors of her very own. She treasured the award despite its lifeless stab upon her pride; she reveled in the beauty of experiencing it with her eyes. Yet she could not delight in all it was worth, for it was not hers to have. Yes, it—like all the others lined up on the shelves—was her elder sister's; she must have deserved all of them. The girl was at an emotional loss there: she had no memories of not winning them and still being "loved" by the rest of her family of which she could speak. She may share one roof with two out of three—for the accomplished, _loved_ daughter comes home but once a year—but she did not love them well.

She did not truly love them.

At that moment, he needed one he knew; she, one she loved. At least to seal the chasm adrift within them as a consequence of their own denial: that they did not—and alas, could not—find one he knew and one she loved in the places that they seek. They had been unaware of their playing a lonely charade in which they reap evanescent substitutes for the ones they needed:

he cloaked his need under his love of life; she dwelled upon her love for him.

Subconsciously he coveted a feeling akin to that which he secures from the man and the woman: a love—be it so slightly or not at all manifested—that he does not see is from the giver yet is always present.

Just like how she loved him.

Subconsciously she pined for affection distinct from that which she secures from her family: a care—be it purely rooted upon concern or regard—that she does not necessitate upon the giver yet is genuine.

Just like how he cared for her.

Pondering is needless to identify whom Fate slyly brought together that day.

* * *

She longed for escape.

She looked back inside her household one more time and shut the front door behind her, sighing. She stared listlessly at the road ahead. Her fingers were quite frostbitten from the cold feel of the gold trophy she left behind that she deliberated warming them off by entertaining herself with all the grit, stones, and sand a nearby dumpster in an alley had to offer.

He longed for escape.

He looked back inside his household one more time and shut the front door behind him, sighing. He stared listlessly at the road ahead. His fingers were quite clammy from the waxy feel of the picture he left behind that he deliberated cooling them off by absorbing himself in all the books, trading cards, and magazines a nearby bookstore had to offer.

After gathering as much grit, stones, and sand as she pleased, she parked herself on the cement ground and propped her back comfortably against the brick wall of the bookstore. She picked up a rock the same size as her fist and threw it at the dumpster across the narrow, soulless alley.

After leafing through as much books, cards, and magazines as he pleased, he assumed an Indian sitting position on the carpeted floor of the shop. He picked up a recently published pocketbook the likes of which he had never before encountered and flipped its pages.

He flipped a page; she threw a rock, again and again. They played the same lonely charade for a while, until his eardrums pounded in unison with the recurring thumps from outside.

Disturbed, he returned the book and went out the shop to see what was creating the ravenous clamor that gained his attention.

Disturbed, she released the rock and looked up to see what was creating the ravenous shadow that towered over her.

He saw her. She saw him.

Two pairs of eyes widened, two mouths agape. They played the same lonely charade for a while, until she braved to collapse the silence barrier.

"What, Football Head?"

She had not expected _him_ to be there. Honestly she did not want to face him in that instance. Not when she was wallowing in the passion of self-pity. The fervor might just drive her insane: her strength of mind was not enough to stifle the temptation and she might hurt him, verbally or worse. He did not deserve to get hurt.

He said nothing.

He had not expected _her_ to be there. Honestly he did not want to face her in that instance. Not when he was overwhelmed by the passion of melancholy. The fervor might just drive him insane: his strength of heart was not enough to stifle the temptation and he might hurt her, verbally or worse. She did not deserve to get hurt.

She chose to say no more.

With a tranquil smile he sat next to her and stretched his legs. He leaned against the brick wall and rolled a stone between his fingers and against his palm. This he took aim with, and threw.

With an enigmatic sneer she folded her legs. Repeatedly she tossed a rock and caught it till she chucked it and dented the bin.

They took turns striking the aluminum can that stashed a brimful of litter with their little stones and reckless hands. Both the boy and the girl sensed a gratifying feeling of competition with each other—soon each hurl was fiercer than the last. Instinctively he and she were seeking for consolation in the arising aggressiveness of the other, manifested by their lobbing stones.

He did not want her to become aware of it, but he felt weak—incapable, as if there was nothing he could do to ease himself (and to think that he was _the_ kid who convinces everyone to "do something about it"!)—before he stumbled upon her.

She did not want him to become aware of it, but she felt weak—vulnerable, as if she could not tighten her fists to defend herself (and to think that she was _the _kid who convinces everyone to fear her fists!)—before he joined her.

As their every throw resounded, both the boy and the girl gained a vague impression of relief surging through them. He ignored his nostalgia for the two people he longed to have. She pushed aside her heartache for the love of the family she already had.

They played the same lonely charade for a while, until they considered the clatter of their pitches too riotous for they themselves to have caused it. They dropped the stones and peered up. Above them, the rafters of the shop buildings surrounding their alley felt the first sign of rain.

Drops of misty rain pit-pattered on tin roofs. Both boy and girl opened their palms to catch drips.

Within seconds the drizzle thrived into a shower, and the shower torrents. The alley provided them with no shelter, and the other buildings along the now quite slippery road displayed neither roof nor canopy atop their frontages. The boy shot glimpses from the girl, whose hair and clothes dripped more and more by the second; to the overfilled trashcan, into which neither of them could seek cover; to the shop doors which, inferring from personal experience, would not welcome two soaking wet and practically penniless kids.

The girl glanced at her dress and, finding it as sodden as her hair and bow, shrugged. Miriam would not mind; it was just drenched and not stained. And, since she did not care less for the rain dousing her any more than it already had, she geared herself up for a spur-of-the-moment dash to the next convenient shelter… or so the boy assumed.

The boy glanced at his pullover shirt and, finding it remarkably dry as to his hair and hat, took it off. He did not mind; he still had his polo shirt underneath. The girl could hold it over herself through her spur-of-the-moment dash to the next convenient shelter… or so he assumed again.

He handed her his sweater just when she ran off the alley and charged head-on into the piercing spray of rain.

More stunned than soaked, he bound his jacket into a ball that he then clutched on the crook of his arm to keep dry and chased after her. He reeled back slightly upon seeing her stop at the middle of the road.

The boy trained his eyes on the girl in curious awe. At first sight, she was heartily basking in the driving rain in the middle of a boulevard free from fleeting folks and vehicles. With her arms outstretched, she raised her palms high, capturing the beads that crashed into them and letting them trickle down to the rest of herself. She directed her face towards the gloomy sky with her eyes closed and her lips curled… up, to his surprise.

At second, she was reveling in a sort of invisible freedom that the rainfall granted upon her. He heard a sigh—one that resembled a murmur of an emotion he never knew existed—escape her lips as they parted and revealed to him a broad smile.

This girl he had known for so long was at that moment, for the first occasion ever, the epitome of serenity. Needles of rain cut through her cheeks and pricked her warm flesh. As the boy looked on from an arm's length far, two or three beads trickled from beneath the girl's eyes and lay on her cheekbones, then were slowly washed away.

The boy soundlessly treaded closer to her in what was at most concern and part disbelief. As he drew within grasping reach of her, she opened her eyes and met his gaze. He unwrapped the balled-up pullover shirt and cast it over her head.

She seized one end of the jacket and crept underneath it as they hastened to the closest canopy. Noticing that the boy did not take cover himself, she took hold of the other end of the sweatshirt and tugged it to shield all of his head from the relentless torrent. He looked at her, wide-eyed, and grinned.

Once they were safely below the fabric roof, the two stopped to catch their breaths. She wrung her bow and her hair dry as well as the hem of her skirt, he his hat, hair, and sweater. Both were shaking off the wet in their shoes when she threw her head back and sneezed—loud.

Her partially dry bow sagged and her hair, which had already sprung back to its typical two-brooms-on-either-side-of-her-head style, fell about her face and into her eyes. She was a hilarious sight. He tried his best to repress a chuckle or two, but in no time cackled shamelessly with his hands on his knees.

She grunted, folded her arms across her chest, and turned to face the other way. He wiped his eye and regained composure. The next thing she knew was that he was handing her a handkerchief, barely dampened, when he, too, sneezed—louder.

His partially dry cap fell off his head and into the puddle in the ditch. With the fingers of one hand he brushed his locks away from his face and with the back of the palm of the other, wiped his nose. And as he bent down to retrieve his cap, the girl blew her own nose.

She sounded like she passed gas.

He doubled over once again, even clutching his own belly. She glowered menacingly at him first, but laughed at herself eventually. He tightly wrung his cap and donned it on again.

They sneezed, laughed, blew their noses, and laughed some more. They played—no, not their lonely charade any longer—this amusing diversion, until a shaft of sunlight blinded her.

She shielded her eyes with her hand and squinted at the light. Then she gasped.

He did the same and observed the brilliantly lit sky. The rain was not just over; a majestic rainbow in all its vibrant glory also adorned the entire stretch of the city. He followed the beauty from end to end with his eyes, and it looked to him as though it takes flight at Tower Bridge all the way to the football stadium—or vice versa. He could be wrong, though.

She fondly shifted her gaze from the riveting scenery to the even lovelier sight next to her. She looked him from head to toe, clasped her hands together as if praying, and sighed. To be with _him_ and him _alone_ as she threw rocks in a dumpster, savored the smell of summer rain, and marveled at a resplendent rainbow… it was all she wanted, all she would dare to ask Fate.

Fate slyly brought them together that day, at least to seal the chasm adrift within them as a consequence of their own denial: that they did not—and alas, could not—find one he knew and one she loved in the places that they seek. They had been unaware of their playing a lonely charade in which they reap evanescent substitutes for the ones they needed:

he cloaked his need under his love of life; she dwelled upon her love for him. That day, he loved life all the more. She loved _him_ all the more, too. For subconsciously, he needed one he knew. And she, one she loved.

He knew _her_. He had known her for six years. And he still does.

She loved _him_. She had loved him just as long. And she still does.

Their real tragedy was that they neither knew nor understood what they needed. In any case, they still have the rest of their lives to ponder. They are still but nine years of age, and it is unwise to throw concerns (such as subconscious "needs" budding from the desires of the heart) at nine-year-old kids; they might just throw them back or worse, throw them against a dumpster.

Arnold darted a fleeting look at his female companion as he beheld the vibrant specter in the skies. He reminisced all that transpired for the last five— or was it ten? —minutes. It had never before crossed his mind that he could share a comforting and memorable experience with someone he had known for what felt to him like all his life. Especially Helga G. Pataki.

Helga jerked her head back once, twice, thrice and spewed all over her palms for the twentieth time in a row. She brought out the kerchief, held it over her nose, and BLEW.

It had also never before crossed his mind that the sound of her blowing her nose was horribly funny. Arnold's usually half-lidded eyes gaped wide.

"Helga, you… farted?"

**End**

Maybe you thought the Three Words were "_I love you_" or "_Love you too_" or "_Sorry, I don't_" or "_Marry me, Arnold_" or "_Huh? What? YOU?_"… But they weren't! (And I bet Arnold's Three Words were darned unexpected!)

I implore two things from you. One: Read my own review (obviously it'll the first one posted, frannie caudell's) in the Reviews page. Two: Contribute to the Reviews page. (And if you don't feel like doing so now, won't you come back sometime to at least tell me you've read this?) Got that? Is all.


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